


Smiting the Day

by orphan_account



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer and Ryan reunite after a century apart. Brendon is not impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smiting the Day

Originally posted to my livejournal [here](http://delighter.livejournal.com/21873.html). Takes place in the Anne Rice Vampire Chronicles universe, but you don't have to be familiar with the books to get this. 

 

Brendon has yet to see a night that Spencer doesn't take a razor to his face, shaving to reveal smooth, white, almost poreless skin. Spencer says it's a curse, the way his beard creeps back in every day while he sleeps. Brendon once asked to stay with Spencer during the day, sleep in the dark of the crypt with him, so he could watch Spencer's face like a time-lapse film. Spencer had said no before the thought had even reached Brendon's lips, and had forbidden Brendon from ever disturbing his rest, squeezing his wrist until it hurt.

Spencer's hands are precise, no motion ever wasted. His fingernails catch the light when he shaves; they look like they would be wet to the touch. But not tonight. Tonight he leaves his beard on his jaw, only trimming the little hairs on his lip that curl over onto his mouth. The beard is full and dark and puts to rest Spencer's normal air of pale, androgynous mystery. He smiles at Brendon through the mirror.

"You approve."

It isn't a question. Spencer knows Brendon likes it, Spencer knows everything Brendon is thinking. But he likes to hear Brendon say it out loud, seldom fails to smile when Brendon speaks. Brendon thinks that Spencer looks like a Rembrandt portrait. Like the ones they had seen in the National Gallery, sneaking through in the dead of night, Brendon's flashlight only bright enough to illuminate faces, so that they hovered eerily out of their frames. Spencer looks like he's been created with the same unnatural attention to detail, light and shadow falling over him tumultuously, beautifully. Holding his head unnaturally still, his eyes never leaving Brendon. Eyes that are glacier blue, luminous in any light, sharp like they see _everthing_.

"You look like a college stoner," Brendon finally says, holding out a robe for Spencer to step into.

"It's a timeless look," Spencer chuckles. He ties the robe himself and turns his attentions to Brendon. Brendon has already showered, is clean and dressed for the night. Wool pants and a button-up shirt Spencer had put in his closet. He doesn't flinch when Spencer quickly snips at the hair around his ears, the shears going from the vanity to Spencer's hand too quickly for Brendon to see.

"He's coming tonight."

Brendon flicks a look to the cracked leather chest that sits at the foot of their bed. Or really, Brendon's bed, since he's the only one who does any sleeping in it.

Wherever they go, the chest is the first piece of luggage on the train, the plane, the limo. Spencer once knelt down in front of it, pulling Brendon down beside him, and showed Brendon everything it held, one treasure at a time. Spencer had felt Brendon's burning desire to open it, knew that Brendon was the kid who carefully peeled back the edge of the wrapping paper on his presents before Christmas morning. Like a reward for resisting so valiantly, Spencer had kissed his temple and sprung the lock on the lid with a look.

A stack of papers held together with a black rosary, the writing indecipherable, ink faded to a blush of brown. A broken wooden box, full of bronze rings, green with age. A moth-eaten wool cap with a plume of feathers that had rotted to crumpled sticks. A weird little lute-shaped instrument, smaller than a ukulele, red paint flaking off, stringless. A tiny animal skull cast in gold. Oddly, a hand-stitched Confederate flag, folded into a triangle, edges dirty. Trinkets and broaches, rotted bundles of cloth, letters in languages Brendon didn't recognize. Keepsakes and gifts, which came as a surprise, since Spencer was in the habit of abandoning entire homes full of belongings and furniture and clothes when the urge took him to move on, to find a more secluded island in the Maldives or a livelier building on the Upper East side.

And at the bottom of the chest, tucked in a leather portfolio embossed with a crucifix, had been a single portrait. It was one of those old, pose-for-a-thousand-hours photos. A young man with big eyes stared out from it, dressed formally like a poncy Dickensian character from a BBC drama. He was beautiful, the age of the photo unable to hide the shine of his hair, the softness of his cheeks and the tell-tale glow of his eyes. He looked bored. He looked like Spencer did when Spencer forgot to move, to blink, to mime the constant shifting restlessness of real humans.

Brendon doesn't like that, when Spencer forgets to move.

Spencer had answered Brendon's fingers hovering over the white smoothness of the young man's face with a, "Yes. Like me." He didn't reveal anything else, though he knew Brendon was thrumming with questions. He had just put everything away in the same order it had come out in and then taken Brendon to see the orquestra sinfônica at the Sala São Paulo, charming them into the first tier box with a shrug at the tuxedoed ushers. He'd let Brendon hold his hand and every time Brendon had looked over, grinning stupidly, Spencer was already looking at him.

***

They come in from the west, just two red blinking dots in the dark until the Gulfstream taxis into the bright hangar. The jet is painted black, even the windows tinted dark, and it looks like a giant coffin to Brendon. Which, he supposes, is exactly what it is.

The jet powers down with a long whine and Brendon can feel a ripple of anxiety run through the ground crew. He hears Jimmy shift behind them, shuffling his driving cap in his hands, his shoes making squeaky rubber noises on the concrete. Brendon feels it too, it makes him want to take a step behind Spencer. Maybe not to hide, but to show his vulnerability, some expression of respect. Bow and bare his neck or something. Spencer tilts his head, as though he's listening, and a pulse of calm swells out from him, silent and huge like a mushroom cloud. As always, Brendon is untouched by Spencer's mind melt, still fidgety while the rest of the staff settle like they've all swallowed a Xanax.

Spencer is as serene as always, sunglasses on, hands clasped loosely. He looks like he's leaning on the limo, but Brendon knows better; Spencer would crush the metal panel. Brendon takes half a step closer to him. Spencer doesn't seem to notice.

When the jet's door finally cracks open, the stairs smoothly unfolding like a grasshopper leg, it's all very anticlimactic. The man who pokes his head out is scruffy and sleep-rumpled, blinking at the lights before stepping out and reaching high for a spine-crunching stretch. He tops it off with an obnoxious yawn, belatedly covering his mouth with his fist. He's wearing sandals.

"Hello, America," he says, like he's Paul McCartney and it's 1964. Brendon looks over to Spencer and starts, because the sunglasses are gone and Spencer is smiling. With teeth. Wide and gorgeous and frightening and using all of his teeth, even the wicked fangs. Brendon can count on one hand the number of times he's seen that smile and it's never been in public. He's so mesmerized by it that he doesn't notice the young man, the one from the portrait, until he's suddenly between them, cupping Spencer's cheeks and pressing his lips to Spencer's, murmuring words in a foreign language instead of a kiss.

Brendon stumbles away from them, and it's too much. The young man is tall and impossibly thin, and the way his face is pressed to Spencer's it looks like they were cut from the same piece of white marble, the chisel leaving their noses and mouths locked together, the young man's thumbs resting below Spencer's closed eyes.

"It's creepy, right?" a soft voice says, and the bearded man from off the plane is holding out his hand. Brendon frowns down at it, confused. There are two vampires making out not ten feet from them in a private plane hangar filled with oblivious humans in Austin, Texas at two o'clock in the morning. Spencer is always the one who handles damage control when someone stares at him for too long, or tries to touch his hair or starts to shake and sweat with fear when Spencer doesn't wear sunglasses. But now Spencer's got his hands on the young man's arms and he's murmuring back with the resonate rumble that's always been reserved for Brendon. Strangely, the bearded man doesn't seem obliviated or scared or anything but sleepy-eyed and friendly.

"What?"

The man shrugs and sticks the hand in his hoodie pocket.

"It's creepy, you know, when they move that fast. I've been trying to get Ryan to run through a brick wall, you know, to bug people out with the man shape he'd make. Like in cartoons." The man throws up his arms like an Egyptian silhouette, eyes and mouth in 'o' shapes. He drops the pose and grins. "Hilarious, right?"

"...Right." Brendon has to admit that yes, that would be very cool, but he would never in a million years suggest that Spencer do something so undignified. But now it's in his head, and Spencer will know, and he just might try it if he thinks it would make Brendon laugh.

"I'm Jon, by the way," the man smiles, like he knows that Brendon is now smitten with the idea. Upon closer inspection he's young, fresh-faced under the beard and the unwashed hair. "You must be Brendon."

Brendon nods and gets his shit together. He motions for the crew to start unloading the jet, all of them waiting for his signal, unaware of the vampire embrace that's getting more obscene by the minute. Long neck and drainpipe legs, the young man is hard not to admire. His thin wrists jangle softly with beaded bracelets as he touches Spencer's throat. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hangar make their faces and hands luminescent, and Spencer is reaching up the young man's back under his vest and Brendon can't look anymore.

Jon doesn't have the same reserve. "It's crazy, seeing another one. Ryan killed the last vamp we met. Man, it was ugly." Brendon doesn't like talking about Spencer like he's an _it_ , doesn't even like saying the word out loud, _vampire_. It's ridiculous. Vampires are horror movie Draculas and kids in Halloween costumes. Spencer is more real than anything Brendon's ever seen in his life, and he can safely say he's seen a lot.

But Jon's words make him pause. "You've seen another one?" Brendon asks, startled by the possibility that there are more than two beings like Spencer. He knew, in the back of his mind, that there must be, that they came from somewhere that's not Transylvania, but what did it matter? Spencer is now, is enough, is too much anyways.

"Sure, a young one. She was fronting a youth group in Las Vegas, can you believe it? Luring in kids and shit and dumping the bodies in the lake. Just gross. Ryan took the head right off her shoulders, like, literally."

Sometimes it's as though Spencer has no concept of time. He can spend weeks standing motionless in front of a TV screen, marathoning British sitcoms or avant-guarde Danish cinema or documentaries on Bigfoot. Then sometimes there is never time enough, like when they'd been living in Okinawa, waiting for the cherry blossom season, and Spencer had come home with bloody hands, telling Brendon to hurry and get his things because they were leaving that night, that minute.

"What do you mean, a young one?"

"I don't know, maybe twenty, thirty years since she was turned?" Jon shrugs.

"Turned?" Brendon is confused, but before Jon can answer they're distracted by a sob from the young man, from this Ryan, who is crying, red tears cutting down his white cheeks. Spencer catches one of the tears with his mouth before it drips off of Ryan's chin, shudders.

"Let's get moving here," Jon says quietly, and turns Brendon by the shoulder. Brendon hasn't been touched by anyone but Spencer for longer than he can remember. Jon takes his hand away before Brendon can shrug it off.

***

Brendon relates it to two people with children moving into one house. Ryan moves into their ranch like an evil stepmother and now Brendon is expected to get along with Jon like a good kid. Though it turns out that Jon is impossible to hate, as much as Brendon resents the situation.

"Dude!" Jon exclaims when he sees the games room. "Rock on. Living on a plane is cool, but nothing beats Resident Evil on a 150" plasma." He turns to Brendon with big dopey eyes. "Will you marry me?"

Playing with someone who isn't preternaturally gifted is something Brendon didn't know he'd been missing. He usually gets trounced by Spencer, who relishes beating new games in one sitting. Jon talks while they play, pausing occasionally to curse at a zombie, telling Brendon about himself (from Chicago, prefers beer to anything else that can be consumed, doesn't like playing sports that involve sand) and about Ryan ("He's on an experimental rock kick right now. I've seen the Mars Volta 18 times this year, and that's like, 17 times too many. I usually get stoned and tune out.") and about how they met. ("One minute I was a just a dirty roadie getting his neck snacked on by an honest-to-god vampire, and the next I was sitting pretty in the penthouse of the Ritz-Carlton, and the vampire is telling me his name is Ryan and he wants me to come with him to Oaxaca. I don't even fucking know, man.")

Brendon starts to remember a time when he could effortlessly hold a conversation with a human, when he enjoyed meals with people who also ate food grown in the earth, even if Jon has a very pedestrian addiction to oven-baked chicken fingers. Brendon almost feels bad for Maurice, whose face gets tight and pained when Jon insists on them being eaten with plum sauce out of a jar mixed with ketchup and mayo.

Jon doesn't push him to contribute to the rambling conversation, doesn't pepper Brendon with questions he must surely have. For all his easy-goingness, Jon wisely senses that Brendon is overwhelmed by their intrusion, by Spencer's distraction, by Ryan's silence. Ryan, who, as the nights pile into each other and stretch into weeks, doesn't talk to Brendon at all. Brendon can't feel anything when Spencer reads his thoughts, but he's half-way convinced himself that Ryan's intrusions make his head tingle. Brendon knows he can't hide his resentment, so he tries to project it directly at Ryan's face. But Ryan just looks at Brendon like he's nothing, another indistinguishable meal in the mooing herd of the human population.

He starts sleeping a bit at night again, passed out in the games room with Jon, since apparently Spencer doesn't need him, disappearing for days with Ryan. Jon likes rolling his jeans up and dangling his legs in the shallow end of the pool, leaning back on his hands and soaking up the Texas sunshine. Brendon sits with him because Jon doesn't expect him to fill in the silence but he hasn't been zombified by Spencer either, which is a refreshing change of pace when it comes to human companionship.

Spencer has Brendon fitted and tailored for appropriate clothes where ever they move. He has $5000 leather jackets commissioned and shoes that cradle Brendon's feet like gloves. He dotes on Brendon; having cases of Hershey's chocolate flown into Alexandria and hypoallergenic bedding on the cot in their stilted hut in South Africa. Brendon finally gives into his curiosity.

"Why? Why are you with him? It's not for the money," he says. It makes him nostalgic for a time when he didn't have a filter on what came out of his mouth, before he didn't have to speak at all.

Jon laughs and tips his Ray-Ban's down to smirk at Brendon. "No, it's not for the money. Though, it's pretty cool not worrying about rent and beer money and shit." He kicks his legs in the water, as if he's seriously contemplating a sincere answer. Like he's never really thought about it before. That's okay, while the sun is up, Brendon can wait.

"I guess for one, it's better than being eaten," Jon says, lifting one shoulder. His t-shirt is old and starting to stretch and the neck sags to show Jon's ruddy throat. It's smooth and unmarked and Brendon wonders if Ryan does the same thing Spencer does: tonguing at the fang wounds until they close up with a tingle, just a smear of blood left behind that Spencer licks away thriftily.

Jon thinks some more and continues. "And for two, it's pretty killer chilling with a vampire. He eats bad guys, man."

"He lets you watch?" Brendon asks, surprised. Spencer won't let Brendon come with him when he feeds, tells him it's not _gentlemanly_ and ignores Brendon's pouts with an indulgent smile. Like Brendon couldn't handle watching an asshole rapist get his throat ripped out. Brendon would _pay_ to see that.

"Yeah. He makes me watch. Says it builds a better appreciation for life. I guess I've got one now. Not to mention a healthy tolerance for violence." Jon doesn't sound remorseful in the least. Brendon spends the rest of the day with the ache of resentment in his chest.

***

Spencer comes back in different clothes and noses at Brendon's cheek where he's earned a burn from being outside.

"You taste like sunshine," Spencer whispers, lowering Brendon to the bed, and Brendon doesn't have to voice his relief, his heart-bursting happiness.

"Where were you?" he asks, so that Spencer knows it's the most important of all the questions and doubts swirling through his head.

"Were you worried?" Spencer teases, carefully touching Brendon's mouth. His fingers are cool and Brendon wants to feel them on the side of his neck, just above his shoulder where he caught the worst of the burn. Spencer complies immediately. "Ryan wanted to go to the sea," he admits.

"Oh, well then. If _Ryan_ wanted to go." Brendon learned long ago that hiding his petulance would just get him laughed at. He sticks out his lip for added effect.

Spencer sits up, and Brendon bounces down on the bed. He hadn't realised Spencer was holding him up, practically hovering over the mattress.

"Yes, Brendon. If Ryan wants to go to the sea, I go with him," Spencer says, the words firm, but his voice soft, like he's chastising a child. Brendon flares with anger, and he knows Spencer can feel it, so he turns his head to the side and glares at the dark window.

Spencer's touch runs down the tendon in Brendon's neck, tender and coaxing. Brendon unpinches his mouth and asks, "Does he make you happy?"

Spencer looks at Brendon shrewdly, well aware of the test he's been given. He's quiet for a few moments, just watching Brendon's face, close enough for Brendon to see the tiny flecks of darker blue trapped in the ice of his pupils. Spencer's thumb moves to rubbing over Brendon's adam's apple tenderly.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, songbird," he finally says. His avoidance of the question is answer enough. Of course Ryan makes him happy. How could Brendon ever compete with an immortal? Someone who Spencer can respect like an equal, someone who he can relate to, confide in, hunt with.

Brendon feels fragile and insubstantial under the soft weight of Spencer's fingers on his throat. At any moment Spencer could press down and his trachea would give like a piano key.

Spencer hears the thought and his hand is gone. He lowers himself down onto his back on the bed pats his chest, motioning for Brendon to lay his head on it. Brendon considers disobeying Spencer, maybe moving to the other side of the bed. But his body betrays his desires and he fits himself againt Spencer's side. Brendon still remembers to roll his eyes at the treatment. He wonders if Spencer fits as well with Ryan, if their hard, ancient bodies can mold to one another the way Brendon has always been able to melt around Spencer.

"Not really," Spencer chuckles, making his chest rumble under Brendon's ear. He pulls Brendon closer by his love-handle and cups Brendon's bare foot between his own cold feet.

"If I asked you to, would you stop reading my mind?" Brendon asks, curious.

"No," Spencer answers immediately, as if it's out of the question.

Brendon presses a smile into Spencer's chest. "Your loss. Not much going on up there anyways."

Spencer huffs a laugh and cups the back of Brendon's head, leaves his hand there. "You have no idea."

***

Brendon laughs when Jon drops to his knees and grabs his heart at the sight of Brendon's music room. It's almost complete, almost as good as the collection they abandoned at the cliff-side house in Santa Monica, the one with a recording studio over-looking the ocean. Brendon is especially pleased when Jon coos fondly over his vintage 1958 Gibson doubleneck.

Jon turns out to be a competent guitarist. A little raw, but his natural enthusiasm translates well into clear-voiced renditions of _Hard Day's Night_ and _Good Day Sunshine_. He convinces Brendon to duet and kisses Brendon's adam's apple when they're done, professing his love.

"Holy shit, let's start a band right now. I'll even give you first billing. _The Brendon and Jon Mind-Blowing Experience of Awesome_. Catchy, right? We're going to be huge."

Jon likes speeding into the city in Brendon's Maserati and conducting day-long hunts for the perfect bean burrito. He flirts with old Mexican ladies running questionable taco stands out of RVs and gets them the really good salsa. Brendon finds himself nested with Jon in coffee shops, making nice with students behind laptops and scoring the odd free beignet for tipping well. They start haunting Congress Ave, trolling for good blues rock and finding superb mariachi and better margaritas, cold and sour in the hot summer nights. Jon is just as accomplished as Spencer when it comes to getting them to the front of the line or back stage or invited to the after-after-party, and he doesn't even have to resort to Jedi mind tricks.

It makes Brendon feel human again, reckless. Not having the option of Spencer to fixate on every night feels like both a tragedy and an open door.

They are at La Fiera one night and Brendon is watching Jon dance poorly with a girl with black hair down to her ass when he starts to panic. For the life of him, he can't remember how old he is. He takes a sip of his Corona and tries to be logical. He should be able to count back to 1987. And there is the problem. When was the last time he needed to know the date? What did it matter? He doesn't have a job to go to or anniversaries to remember or five year plans to trudge through. He's not counting down the days to retirement. He doesn't have a mortgage to pay off or a wife to resent or a family to avoid. He has Spencer.

Brendon casts around the bar for a paper or a flier, something with a date on it. Jon finally finds him a block from the club, crumpled over a newspaper box.

Jon hauls Brendon up into his arms, holds on tight while Brendon sniffles pitifully into his t-shirt.

"Hey, hey now. Don't be doing that." But he doesn't let go. It feels weird, when Brendon is so used to Spencer's unyielding hardness, his limbs like petrified wood. Spencer is unfailingly gentle, but Brendon has never been able to sink into him like he can with Jon, who is sturdy in the shoulders and soft in the middle and gives unconditional hugs like a mom.

"I miss him," Brendon confesses.

Jon sighs and tips his head into Brendon's. "Yeah, me too." And Brendon knows that Jon means Ryan, and he'd almost forgotten that Jon was being ditched too. Shame washes over Brendon and he holds on a little tighter.

The night before, he and Jon had gone outside to smoke up when Jon had suddenly perked like a scruffy dog, sticking his head out from under the wrap-around porch eve.

Joining him, Brendon saw Spencer and Ryan, sitting like lazy gargoyles on the roof of the east wing of the ranch house, their long legs bent, knees touching.

Ryan was the first to stand and step off the roof, walking away from the 30 foot drop like he'd stepped off a curb. He'd moved too fast in the starlight and Brendon's eyes lost track of him until he'd been right in front of Jon, and Jon was smiling his stupid sweet smile.

"Hey," Jon had said in welcome, and without hesitation, opened his arms for Ryan to step into.

Brendon feels it now, the reason why Ryan had taken Jon from his home, shared with Jon his secrets. It seeps into Brendon through Jon's embrace like warm chocolate syrup. Love. Unconditional and forgiving. As a boy, Brendon had had love and forgiveness and brotherhood preached into his skull on a daily basis. But always with conditions. Relinquish his soul to Christ, reconcile the sins of others, repent, repent, repent. Brendon is sure that cracking Jon's chest open would reveal the welcoming golden glow of heaven.

***

Brendon wakes to the sound of muffled moans. He's curled deep into the corner of the largest leather sofa in the games room, and the flickering from the muted TV is reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. It's dark out, dark enough to be close to midnight.

Ryan is kneeling over Jon on the other end of the couch like a big white mantis, skinny legs straddling Jon's thigh. Ryan's movements are strobed by the uneven light, but Brendon can still see the spill of blood pooling in the hollow of Jon's throat, Ryan's lips and tongue smeared dark with it as he sucks and nibbles and laves.

Jon's eyes are closed, head tipped back over the couch. He's moaning behind the bite of his teeth in his lip, and Brendon's never seen him look less composed, flushed and sweaty and gripping Ryan's shirt in big, healthy handfuls. Brendon can taste it too, the connection of teeth to blood, the sparking, snapping prick that ties all his nerves into two tiny points of ecstasy. Knows the need, the exhausting desire that's smothering Jon, making him gasp and clutch harder. Jon's hips rise up and Ryan generously shifts a thigh closer, encouraging Jon with a soft hum.

Ryan must know Brendon is awake, watching, must sense his fascination and sympathetic arousal, but he doesn't look up, doesn't banish Brendon with a thought. Instead, he slides a hand under Jon's ass and lifts him higher, lets Jon hitch and thrust against his leg. There is a hiss and jingle as Jon's belt comes apart, the fly of his jeans opened by phantom hands. Ryan's spidery white fingers dip into the shadow there and Brendon doesn't know if Jon's cracked yell is from the fresh bite Ryan puts into the top of his shoulder or Ryan's touch to his cock.

It feels like mere moments pass, Brendon becoming breathless as Jon pants louder. Brendon slips a hand into his own jeans, sucking in his stomach to make room, holding hard to his cock and pressing down on his balls with his fist to keep from coming. He rubs a thumb over the wet head, sending itchy thrills up and down his legs and arms.

It's torturous by the time Jon comes, back arching, whining like he's being burned. Jon convulses when Ryan doesn't let go of him, shuddering again and again with what looks like pain but Brendon knows is bliss. Jon finally grabs for Ryan's face with weak hands, and Ryan gives up sloppy kisses that smear blood all over Jon's chin.

Brendon carefully takes his hand away from his cock, still hard. He's desperate to come, is a little worried that if he stands up, the friction will have him jizzing in his pants. But something keeps him from losing himself to the delicious sink of pleasure. Just like he wouldn't close his eyes and rest in a room with a hungry tiger.

Ryan sucks lewdly from the winking little puncture wounds on Jon's neck one last time and sits back, finally looking down to where Brendon is huddled. He watches Brendon with the same bored stare that hasn't changed in the 200 years since his portrait was taken. Except now his hair is tumbled messy into his eyes and he's bloody from mouth to collar. His hand wraps around the back of Jon's neck.

Jon, either oblivious to Brendon or pretending to be, palms Ryan's cheek, his hip, hands worshipful.

"Ryan," Jon sighs. 

Spencer always holds his head to Brendon's temple when Brendon comes, his cock buried deep in Brendon, teeth dripping blood on Brendon's cheek. Like he's feeding off Brendon's orgasm as well as his blood. 

Ryan doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at him. Brendon's forehead tingles and he switches to thinking about Jon's arms around him instead, Jon's warm steadiness. He leaves the room feeling like a scolded puppy: a little scared, a lot angry.

***

Brendon finds Spencer in their closet, picking though t-shirts. He has the slightest hint of a blush in the apples of his cheeks and his belly protrudes just a little over his jeans. Evidence that he'd already gone out to feed that night while Brendon was sleeping. That he hadn't bothered to wake Brendon first.

"You were dreaming about Mexican cats playing bongo drums. It would have been cruel to wake you from that," Spencer says, choosing a black shirt. He doesn't put it on, instead he pulls Brendon to his chest, temporarily warm. Brendon fits his forehead to Spencer's neck and skates his hand over Spencer's belly. It gurgles in reply.

"Gross," Brendon says out loud, and Spencer chuckles against his hair. Brendon thrills at the feeling of stone tremoring with laughter. He slips his fingers into Spencer's waistband and tilts his neck up, a silent offer. He needs it now, he's hard against Spencer's hip, the fresh image of Jon arching into Ryan still has him giddy and horny.

But Spencer slowly lowers his arms, pushes Brendon back. Brendon feels the panic rise again, the neat rows of clothes around them tipping in, and he's going to cry, he's going to scream. If Spencer doesn't want him, Brendon has nothing. Spencer is all he wants; he's going blind with the want.

"Would you stay with me forever, Brendon?" Spencer tugs on his lip, like he's trying to get Brendon to focus. Brendon looks up, and Spencer's eyes, so clear and blue, narrow like he's trying to read Brendon's answer printed across his eyeballs.

"You know I would," Brendon says.

"You don't know what you're saying, you foolish child."

Brendon whips around and there is Ryan in the door to the closet, bored look gone, replaced by seething rage. He still has Jon's blood all over his face and neck, obscene and vibrant against his white skin, highlighting the liquor-bright glow of his hazel eyes. Even at his most passionate, Spencer never looked so violent, like such a predator. Brendon shies closer to Spencer like the prey he is. The feeling of helplessness quickly replaces his anger. Brendon's long resigned to the fact that his flight or fight response is basically just throwing up in his mouth a little.

"You see, _mo chroi_? Weak. He wouldn't last a night, let alone a decade," Ryan spits. "He would leave you and this world if he knew what you truly offer." Ryan's looking at Spencer and Brendon sees the rage drop for a moment, sees a plea in the pinch of Ryan's eyebrows, a covetous pout in the tightening of his lips.

The second Brendon thinks it, the look is gone and Ryan bares his fangs at Brendon with a growling hiss. The air around Ryan is arcing with tension, blood flaking off his mouth. By his next heartbeat Brendon is behind Spencer, being held back by a hand to his sternum.

"It's my gift to give and his choice to make," Spencer says, his voice reverberating dangerously. Around Spencer's back, Brendon sees Ryan slump.

"It will change everything," Ryan says, vicious. Blood tears are tracking down his face again, and Spencer lets go of Brendon to step into Ryan's space. Spencer thumbs at Ryan's cheeks, stone hands supporting a crumbling rocky cliff.

Spencer speaks with the confidence of a prophet. "We will endure, _mo chroi_ , as we always have."

Brendon leaves them wrapped together in the closet, satisfied.

***

That night, Spencer grants Brendon's wish, holding his hand as they slip into the dirty stink of a warehouse basement on the east side of Austin.

Doors open like magic and busy line-workers all look down and get busier as Spencer leads him past tables filled with buckets and measuring equipment and murky, plastic-wrapped bricks of heroin. They stop at the far end of the long room, in front of a set of doors with brass handles. Spencer had dressed both himself and Brendon all in black, like they are pulling off a heist. Brendon tugs at the collar of his jacket and hopes his hair is suitably heist-like.

Spencer glances over at him. "Brendon, a man is about to die here. Have a little respect for the situation."

Brendon shrugs. "Sure, a _bad_ man. That's a good thing, right?"

If Spencer was given to sighing with exasperation, Brendon is sure he would. As it is, he just raises one stark eyebrow.

"It's not our place to pronounce verdict. You will learn, soon enough, that every human walking this earth is _bad._ Most are redeemable. Some are not." Spencer tips his head at the closed door in demonstration.

Brendon gestures back down the room. "So those guys, the ones actually _making_ the drugs, they're going to make up for it somehow?"

"Maybe. I hope so." Spencer's mouth turns down under his beard, his lips holding the palest blush of pink in the white skin of his face.

"You're a big softy for all those sharp teeth," Brendon says, mostly to make Spencer smile. It works, but the smile is sad.

"We forgot once, Ryan and I, that we are human first and always. We thought ourselves gods among mortals. It drove us both mad, and it drove us apart."

A pink film of tears gathers over Spencer's eyes, but he blinks them away. He catches at Brendon's hand before it can reach his face. "Gods or monsters, it doesn't matter. The earth belongs to man and we were never meant to interfere. We are unnatural; we have no destiny, no purpose. So we must cherish humans or else we will perish. Do you understand?"

Brendon doesn't understand at all. But he carefully untangles his hand from the cage of Spencer's grip, nodding his head anyways. "I guess I have a lot to learn."

Spencer bends slightly to kiss him on the forehead. "Starting now."

The doors fly open to reveal a man in a rumpled suit behind a big wooden desk. His cell phone is still pressed to his ear, but he's glaring at Brendon and Spencer over the mess of his desk. It's a classic scene, and Brendon wonders if the guy designed his office around old mobster movies.

Brendon doesn't blink but he still misses Spencer traveling from the doorway to the desk, where the man is suddenly bent back over the arm of his imposing chair, Spencer's hands standing out like white talons on the man's dark shirt.

A meaty, squelching bite cuts through the sound of the man's surprised whimpers and Brendon watches what he can see of Spencer's face in facination. His legs take him from the doorway to the desk. The ecstacy in Spencer's fluttering eyelashes, the deep roll of his throat as he drinks, it's gorgeous. A bloom starts to rise in Spencer's cheek and for a moment, he looks as human as the man he's sucking on. The man's dark eyes are still open and tears run down his pock-marked cheeks, hitting the seal of Spencers lips under his jaw.

The feeding lasts a lot longer than Brendon had expected, the man finally going completely limp when Spencer rises off his neck and gasps like a swimmer coming up for air. It's clean, just a little blood on Spencer's lips, a red tint to his teeth and fangs. Brendon tries to pinpoint the very moment the man dies, but there is no clear indication. No click of a switch or final death rattle or glazing of his eyes. Just one moment his pulse is still fluttering and at some point it's not. It's a little disappointing.

The man still _looks_ living, even drained of blood, so it makes Brendon flinch when Spencer lets the man's body drop and its bulk hits the leather chair with a smack and then slithers to the floor. Spencer takes one more heaving breath and fastidiously wipes the corners of his mouth with a finger and thumb.

"Now for the fun part," he says.

It gets a lot less glamourous from there. They take the body deep into the desert hills, wrapped in a stray tarp and slung over Spencer's arm like a light summer jacket. Brendon tries lifting it, but the man had weighed twice as much as him. At least the effort makes Spencer raise an amused eyebrow.

"So much for ceremony," Brendon remarks as Spencer lifts a huge tilting slab of rock, displacing cacti and scrub. Spencer flings the body into the space and lets the rock drop again with a booming thump. They back away from the dust cloud that rises up around the rock and the desert continues its nighttime song of crying chirps and rustles.

"This is what it means, Brendon. Until the day you perish or the entire human race does," Spencer says slowly, wiping his hands on his pants. "We walk in their world, and to leave evidence of our footsteps would lead to our demise. While they can walk in both the day and the night, they'll always have the advantage over us. _You'll_ always have the advantage."

Brendon ignores the implication that he still has a choice to make. He's made it.

"But I'll always have you to help me out," he says.

"Yes, you will." Spencer smiles, fangs and all. Brendon savours Spencers kiss, old blood and dust, and tugs him fearlessly to the desert floor.

***

Jon leaves Brendon a note before they disappear into the night sky again.

_the Brendon and Jon Experience isn't dying on my watch._

_see you soon_

_love, J_

"We'll see them again," Spencer confirms, and he lets Brendon pack and ship his guitars and his drums and his keyboards and his Wii games before they get on their own plane. Brendon makes sure that Spencer is secure and comfortable in his lead-lined casket in the back cabin, kisses him goodnight(day) and double-checks the outside locks.

Crystal brings him a tea and tries offering up blankets and hot towels and neck-supporting pillows. Brendon just asks her to help him shut all the little windows in the cabin, blocking out the sun glaring hard and yellow over the horizon to the east. Still, the light seeps through the cracks around the plastic shutters and it's too bright.

He's curled into his favourite captain's chair, knees to chin, when his head starts to tingle.

He thinks hard about pulling Spencer down onto the warm rocky sand to look up at the sharp night, the thrum of insects and birds surrounding them. Of Spencer turning his back to the perfection of the stars so that he could kiss Brendon's face and smile down on him. He thinks of Spencer's whispered promises and plans and his own impatience, like a starving man sitting before a feast, waiting for Spencer to sit down too.

The tingling stops when Brendon finally abandons the seeping light of the forward cabin and curls up on the lid of Spencer's casket, ear pressed to the wood, falling asleep in the dark.


End file.
